'Twas now a twelvemonth since the day
Her English lover sailed away,
And 'neath the garden oaks, forlorn,
A week before the wedding morn,
She sat—a book upon her knee—
Alone in pensive reverie.
The menace of the old bridegroom
Was dreadful as an open tomb.
It yawned so imminently near,
Poor dove, she sickened with the fear!
"My heart has called so loud," she said,
"He must come if he be not dead!"
A sudden step—a look—a cry—
" Tis thou!" and, with a kiss, " Tis I!"
"See, I have brought thy English shoes!
Said'st thou I knew not how to choose?
These for thy feet—this golden band
Will grace the whiteness of thy hand!"
From Signal Hill to Wittebloem,
From Kirstenbosch to Roodebloem,
With cannon, bugle, bell and horn,
They ushered in the wedding morn.
The Fiscal went with stately stride
To wish good-morrow to his bride;
But he was greeted with a groan—
Alack! alack! the bird had flown.
Far out beneath a cloud of sail,
A ship bowed to the favouring gale.
